When I Dance, I Dance Alone
by Kamotaketsunuminokami
Summary: The greatest ballet dancer of the decade also happens to be Toris' childhood friend. When confronted with this, Toris is thrown into turmoil - does he face the feelings he's been avoiding for so long and risk losing everything, or does he stay quiet and safe? PolLeit, Human AU
1. Who am I to Say?

When I Dance, I Dance Alone

1\. Who am I to say?

_Ivan Braginsky is the second greatest ballet dancer of our century. The first, dear readers, is Feliks Łukasiewicz. This year's rendition of Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake _played at the Bolshoi Theatre is a stunning rendition that I doubt even old Tchaikovsky could have imagined… _

Toris Laurinaitis looked up from his pen and notepad at the theatre stage. The intermission had ended and the audience called to hush. The great wings of the stage, lush velvet curtains, pulled apart. Silent on the lake, moonlight trickling down in silver skeins, blue and black and purple glowed in the backdrop. The orchestra, no longer tuning, silent for a beat, an intake of air, and rose up in song.

Lake in the Moonlight.

On the lake of swan's tears, was Feliks. Toris' childhood best friend. And the most beautiful swan he'd ever seen.

Feliks began to die.

The dying swan arched its back, hands out. _No longer was this dancer_, Toris began to scribble furiously, _a creature of flesh and blood. No longer did it require the boundaries of bones, the stockiness of muscle, the obligations to gravity. This swan is able to glide across the stage, liquid as moonlight. When, at last Prince Siegfried comes to rescue Odette, Braginsky disrupts the watery, silky smoothness of the swan's dance. Braginsky is extremely technical in his style. Each step perfectly placed, years of hard work dictating each breath and each move and each calculates flex of his muscles. He is entirely different, still a master, but nonetheless different from the warm, honeyed pleasure of watching Odette. _

In the end, the prince and swan princess defeat the treacherous Rothbart, hand in hand gliding away as curtains fall. A happy ending bursting through the seams of a tragedy. Perhaps not the original, but impressive to the audience nonetheless. They cheered happily, tossing bouquets of roses and flowers on to the stage. The beautiful Odette, still dressed in the swan's plumage, bowed hand in hand with the prince.

Toris, mesmerized into a stupor, crawled from his seat and began to venture backstage.

His best friend, Feliks, had to be there. Who else could dance like that? Who else had a body that could bend and float on air? Who else?

Toris walked backstage, holding up an identifying badge to a security guard. As a reporter, he was inclined to capture details. The security guard grunted at Toris.

"I don't know if they'll talk to you, journalist. Give it a shot."

Toris thanked him. His heart race, he could feel the pulse in his neck throb painfully. Excitement. Reunion. He pushed his way through the crowded ballerinas, the cute little swans huddled together and excitedly chittering, the older Queen removing her head piece. He made his way back and back and back. Finally, he saw the swan. Odette. Odette with shoulder-length golden hair down to the shoulders, glittering faintly with residue props. Toris' breath caught in his throat. He raised his hand. "Feliks!" He cried out.

Feliks' hair swayed, graceful swan chin raising. Skin like —

"Who are you?"

Toris stopped dead.

Ivan.

Ivan stood tall above him. A gentle, somehow intimidating, smile on his face. Carved muscles flexed as he approached Toris.

Toris suddenly felt small in his tweed suit and loosely plaited hair. He smiled meekly at Ivan.

"Ah, hello, Mr. Braginsky. My name is Toris Laurinaitis and I'm a journalist - I thought I would catch an interview with…"

"Look, she's incredibly busy and I don't think you need to waste her time." Ivan said, voice cheerfully icy. "So, please, I'm sure others here wouldn't mind sharing a word with you."

"She…?" Toris asked blankly.

Was he wrong? Was this not his childhood cohort? Not the enigmatic, energetic Feliks who jumped in a Datcha lake, gripping Toris' arm as he tumbled into lukewarm waters? Not the same Feliks?

"Oh, bugger off Ivan!" Feliks popped up behind the larger ballet dancer, smiling at Toris.

No, it was the same.

Feliks launches himself powerfully into Toris' arms, wrapping his graceful arms around him. He planted a friendly kiss on Toris' face, smearing pale white makeup in the process. Feliks broke off, still holding Toris' arms.

"Ivan, this is my best friend Toris! Say hello, be friendly now."

Ivan's eyebrows shot up. The princely costume didn't match the look of bewilderment, if Toris said so himself. Ivan relaxed and shrugged. "Don't get too personal out in the open." Ivan said simply, then, smiling once more, he bent close to Toris. "_Don't use too much detail." _

Toris nodded mutely, turning back to the beaming face of his friend. He could think of nothing else. Ivan said something to Feliks Toris did not catch and drifted off, approaching someone who looked like an instructor or stage director.

None of that mattered to Toris.

"You did amazing." He said quietly.

"Thank you thank you. Oh my goodness and you? You better tell me you've been doing your stretches and practicing everything single day. Like you promised."

"Ah, I did promise that didn't I?"

"You didn't." Feliks pouted.

Pretty.

"How about we go eat something? I'm sure you're starving. Or we could get ice cream? Maybe head to GUM?"

Feliks shook his head, still grinning. "Can't. We have a party afterwards for all of us performers. That and I'm trying to watch me weight." He patted his completely flat, well-muscled stomach. He wore the undergarments of the swan's dress, plumage now removed. The leotard and tights was all that remain. Toris swept his eyes over the elegant frame. He wondered why Ivan didn't know - or, rather, what Ivan _did_ know.

"Ah, that's fine - sorry to trouble you—"

"Did you want an interview st—?"

They paused, sentences hanging in the air. Feliks held his hands in front of himself, palms out, and shook his head. Toris embarrassed began apologizing. All at once. When did this happen? When did they fall apart, cogs no longer smoothly linked, clockwork broken? When did talking become so hard? Three years ago they were still teenagers under a winter sun, pelting each other with clumps of snow.

"Hey, how about we meet up next week? I'm off for a bit once the last soirée ends and I have a bit before we prepare _The Nutcracker_." Feliks finally said, breaking Toris' thoughts.

"Oh? Are you the princess in there as well?"

"Her name is Clara or Marie - Marie this time around - and yes. Who else could pull it off?" As an example, Felix popped into complicated _sissone_. He had long taken off precious ballet flats. His toes were wrapped in bandages, a couple with fresh blots of red blossoming.

"Only you. Alright, then, next week it is?"

"Next week it is!"

. . .

_No no no no no you're doing it all wrong, idiot! _

_How am I…? _

_See, watch._

_Ouch!_

_You're supposed to stretch like that. Don't be a baby._

_Ok… _

_Good, bend down. And first position! Second! Third! _

_Feliks! Too fast!_

_You'll never be professional if you can't keep up! Fourth! _

…

_Oh you're doing perfect, Toris. _

_Haha, thank you. I'm tired. _

_Good. Again! _

Toris entered his tiny, cramped Moscow apartment. He stepped over the doors, locking both behind them. He settled with his back against the cool metal of the most inner one, and sighed deeply. He was happy.

Right?

He looked at his notepad. He hadn't written a word on the metro ride home. Instead, he had stared at the flickering orange lights outside the train and saw only Feliks. Only the bandaged toes, the ankle bones jutted to each side, the curve as the heel met the Achilles met the calf met the knee and up and up… too far up, maybe, but skip the stomach and the chest, the perfect curve of the shoulders. Bounce the eyes off the curve of the neck and rest on the green eyes shining back at him, staring where he hoped was home.

Toris tossed the notepad by his typewriter, sitting on what was also his kitchen table/coffee table/flat surface for anything, really. He watched the yellowed papers flutter to rest. He would have to explain to his boss that he hadn't gotten an interview. He was sure his dreamy prose would not suffice. Well, he had until Saturday evening to finish it. Toris didn't know if he would, really.

He slipped off his shoes and coat and jacket and pants. He stepped into the cramped laundry/bathroom and set his clothing in a pile. He cranked the shower on, hot as he could get. It began to spit lamely onto the green porcelain. He watched the water for some time. He stepped inside and let the heat prickle his skin. It itched with the heat, the water steadily coming down harder. He leaned against the wall, not sure why he couldn't focus.

Not sure why when he closed his eyes all he could see was that grin, that happiness, that pride in what Feliks could and did do. The curve of the neck, bounce the eyes down…

Toris gasped and shuddered. He glanced down, surprised to see his hand where he had not commanded it to go but knew full well he would anyway. His palm felt warm and sticky. He briskly finished washing the rest of his body, rinsing his hair with sharp-smelling shampoo and brushing his teeth while in the shower. He did this as quickly as he could, before thoughts could creep in once again.

After a dinner of cold dill-dotted potatoes his neighbor had given him, Toris set to work. He pulled up the typewriter and rewrote the entirety of his notes. He described, in two short paragraphs, the brilliance of the Bolshoi, the brilliance of the dancers, and put a brief mention of Ivan's yet again spectacular role as Prince Sigfried. He mentioned Ivan's age encroaching on retirement and the rumors going around he would soon be taking over the role as choreographer. He focused solely on the large, strange man. He mentioned Feliks only as a well-executed Odette. He did not mention anything else.

When it was done and the ink dried, Toris slipped the manuscript into a Manila envelope. He felt like he was cheating.

He had been always cheating.

So who was he to say?


	2. The Past

When I Dance, I Dance Alone

2\. The Past

The train passed their village once every week, on Monday, at 1500. Toris, aged 12, had a fascination with the train and its station. The train were unique here, the mechanism original, incomprehensible beyond their borders (or so he was told). And, as such, Toris was proud. He was proud to know every last bit of the track, from where some kids had spray painted their insignia over and over until they got bored. He could point to this with his eyes closed. He also knew where the hedgehogs liked to cross, all sniffles and stomps, at nighttime. He's found tracks and quills. He briefly considered keeping the quills he found but decided he didn't need the extra prickles. Mother would be mad after all if she found "wild things" in or on his clothing.

Those details, the spots of rust like splattered paint, the teeth like nails that stuck out, and the tell tale rumble when the train grew ever closer.

Now, first week of summer on a Monday at 1458, Toris waited. He loved to watch the cylinder of metal barrel down the tracks, rattling the earth, unsettling stones in an inelegant spray against the tin-roofed station.

It came to a rumbling halt. Toris, who had been just by the tracks, skittered behind the wooden pillars of the station. He watched the doors creak open and pour out a small trickle of people. Some days no one came from the train, but it always made its stop. Like clockwork. Always a routine, and in that there was comfort for Toris.

Now, however, an impressive group of people tumbled out. Excited, bags thumping down the steps, clicks of heels and swirls of dresses. A couple children poured out, followed by an older child no older than Toris himself.

That was of course, undoubtedly, heart-stoppingly, blond, lithe, strong - well you get the picture - Feliks. Toris was hiding rather poorly behind a pillar, trembling like a leaf, and developing what he would later absolutely describe as a "crush". But in that moment, Toris was just short of whimpering. The child spun towards him. Pink lips upturned like rose petals, and pointed directly at him. Toris froze.

"Hey you."

Toris did his best to look like a normal child.

"Let's be friends."

As it turned out, Feliks was the son of fairly well off doctor mother and engineer father. They owned a dacha, a summer home with lush gardens, a couple pear and apple trees, a psychotic dog, and a fire pit. Toris knew where it was. It was a rock's throw from his own blocky apartment complex, in which he shared an apartment with his mother and two older brothers. (Father out of the picture, but that is another story entirely). Toris had seen Dachas before but not quite one as lively as this. Toris was invited over posthaste because, shortly after the train's arrival, Feliks commanded him to give him a tour of the tiny town, population 13 thousand, two lakes, and only one kind of super market. Toris did his best to take on the role of tour guide, stopping at landmarks and racking his brain for information. He stopped at a world war museum outside and described its contents. Feliks was not listening. He grasped Toris' hand and dragged him straight through the open wooden doors and directly into the reception desk. An older, somewhat obese woman greeted them there. Feliks pulled out coins, purchased their tickets, and spun on his heels to face Toris.

"You've been here before."

"School takes us at least once a year."

"So you know what's in here."

"I think so."

"Tell me."

"Tell you…?"

"Everything, Toris. Tell me what you know. What's that?"

"A coffee pot."

Thunk.

Feliks had slapped Toris directly on the nose, stunning him like a dog. Feliks was smiling. "No no you idiot I know what a coffee pot is. That. That thing." He pointed at a wooden box, where inside were two stone wheels stacked atop one another. The top one had a metal ring about its circumstance, attached to which was a long wooden pole slanted at an angle. The museum curator noticed their evident interest, amused because there were many such artifacts around the room that would be of more interest to two young boys, and trotted up to them. Passing, along the way, faded bayonets with soldiers' pictures pinned next to them on the velvet case covering, pieces of a tank, shattered bullets held together in plastic wrapping, and several lovely medical instruments. She stood before the two boys, recognized Toris.

"Hello lad why don't you give it a go?"

"Alright miss." Toris seemed dejected. He approached the stone and grabbed a chipped pot. He poured its contents into the center of the stone wheels. He grasped the wooden pole and began to spin the wheel.

"What is it?" Feliks asked, eyes wide.

"Makes flour from wheat. Come now Toris put your back into it why don't you? Push! Did you even have your oats today lad?"

Toris was nearly sweating with extortion. He let go, his spindly arms trembling slightly. Feliks hopped up next to him and poured more wheat into the wheels. He stretched his arms before him and grasped the pole. He spun it, hard, and Toris found his eyes glued to the lean, jumping muscles on Felik's forearms. He could see each one defined, long and boyish, not quite the bulk of a man just yet.

"There you are!" The curator cheered. "Got some muscle on you don't you?"

"Why thank you miss." Feliks said, grinning. He looked into the wooden box and dipped his fingers in the newly made flour. "How amazing! I made this."

Toris nodded mutely.

Evidently already bored of this piece of technology, Feliks began to traipse through the rest of the museum. He completely ignored the war time machinery and equipment, opting instead for the household items of old. Feliks stopped before two headless mannequins, appraising them up and down. His eyes lingered but for a moment on the male one, examining the plaited ropes dangling down the sides and the Slavic designs racing up the sleeves. Feliks' eyes became bored rather suddenly, Toris noted, and were an absolutely stunning shade of green. Green like the leaves on forest canopy, bright with direct nourishment from sunlight, and just as jungly and wild. Not that Toris had ever seen a forest, he corrected himself silently, but he had seen painting and photographs when perusing the library texts. Feliks' hunting eyes leaped to the woman's clothing. Long white dress with a red, laced top held close to the bosom under frilly, puffy white sleeves. Long ribbons draped down from the lace top and from a floral headpiece, (ornamented now with plastic flowers so to preserve the time period without having to constantly refresh the decor), and down again from the hips. Feliks beamed.

"Imagine dancing in those!" Feliks hissed in an almost whisper.

"They would fly." Toris agreed.

"And the skirt? With the right choreography, it would be a masterpiece."

"Yes, it would."

"But you would need dancy folk music. You can't have a classic with this."

"Of course."

Feliks rolled those jungle eyes at Toris.

"Do you only know how to agree?"

"I-"

"Well, whatever. Let's get ice cream."

That they did. They collected these items from the tiny products market down the street from the museum. Inside, there was murmurous buzzing from the poorly tended fluorescent lighting, and from the half-dead flies enamoured with said lights. Toris watched Feliks pull again from his seemingly endless pocket of spending money and pay for two vanilla ice cream, coated with a thin layer of chocolate, and wrapped in plastic ornamented with dancing deer. Toris wanted to know why Feliks had so much money. By this point, Toris had not yet been made away of Feliks' parentage. Nor, as Toris considered, had he been made aware of Feliks' opinion on jungles or trains. Maybe Feliks had seen a real jungle! The imaginary danced in his mind's eye. He imagined the exploratory Feliks climbing up the winding trunks, batting away howling monkeys with a rolled up map, and hitching up his khaki shorts. He would climb right up to the canopy and perch on the branches, welcoming the cool wind. Toris had also read the forest was suffocatingly humid. Feliks probably wouldn't like that. Being in humidity, Toris learned, felt like a hot damp blanket placed on one's skin tightly. Feliks, bouncy and energetic as he seemed, probably wouldn't like it at all!

Or maybe he would?

Toris really knew next to nothing about this kid standing right next to him!

"Toris?"

Feliks suddenly said in a tone of voice indicating this was far from the first time his name had been called.

"Yes, sorry?'

"I was asking, Toris, if there's anything else in this town to see. You suddenly stopped. Do I need to pay to keep the tour going?" Feliks teased. He had a drop of ice cream running down the popsicle stick, racing towards his fingers. Toris pulled a napkin from his trouser pocket - well you never know when you really need one now do you - and dabbed it away. Feliks eyes widened as he watched. "Oh, thanks!"

"There isn't a lot else. We can swim in the lake but it's kinda late. Your parents might get worried."

"Is that it?"

"It's a small town."

"What do people do for fun?"

"What?"

"Is there sports or, you know, dance. Like ballet?"

"There's football. They play it during school. There is a ballet studio too." Toris recited from memory. "But, I've never been so I don't know."

"Never been to ballet." Feliks said. It wasn't a question. He chomped on the ice cream, fearless of the cold assaulting his teeth. Toris cringed inwardly, licking his own cold treat slowly.

"No, it's a girl thing isn't it? I think I'm supposed to play soccer instead or something."

"Girl thing!" Feliks shook his hand angrily, threatening to knock what was left of his ice cream flat. "Did you know the world's next and up and coming ballet dancer in the entire world like the whole entire world not just Europe is only three years older than us? And - AND - he's a man! A young man. He's the absolute best. How is it just a girl thing, Toris? Seriously? Who would play Rothbart in Swan Lake? Who would play the toy prince in the Nutcracker? Who would play any male lead? A girl? No, Toris my dear, you are completely in the dark. Show me where this 'studio' is tomorrow and I will enlighten you."

It was then decided as such. Feliks and Toris tossed their popsicle sticks and plastic wrappers in the appropriate receptacle. Toris lead Feliks back to their dacha, talking about nothing on the way. Once there, the sun had started to set. Purple and blue light oozed from the horizon, curling around the orange tendrils of the sun. Across from this, the stars had begun to speckle the sky, strewn as if from the flick of a paintbrush bristle.

The dacha was alive when Toris and Feliks approached the front gates. Feliks turned to him. Behind Feliks' blond head, Toris could see several people talking around a charcoal grill. Whirls of smoke rose wraith-like from the iron, twirling in the air. The trees and plants rustled in a faint breeze. It smelled divine.

"Want to come in for dinner?"

"No, thank you Feliks. Mother would have made something and she'd be worried if I don't come home on time."

"Ok. See you tomorrow. Come in the morning, here, when you can." Feliks commanded, smiled, and opened the gate. Toris did not linger as a group called Feliks in a language he did not understand, or with an accent that was beyond Toris' cognition (he really couldn't tell).

His mind was tumbling and twisting as he walked away from the street full of dachas, old homes, and a yapping dog. This person spent an entire day with Toris… and wasn't bored! Not even remotely! Sure, Feliks was a little bossy, but a lot of people were. Toris didn't have a lot of friends at school, he had his brothers, but no significant comradery otherwise. Toris was often alone with a book or two in hand, bagged lunch on his lap, and a few crumbs for companionship. Solidarity had suited him well. Now, he could hardly think of it. What would Feliks say if he stamped down the hall only to find Toris curled up with a book about bees and a half-eaten, sulfurous egg and ham sandwich? In that life, where Toris and Feliks resided in the same boring town, Feliks might just ignore him and continue on with other friends.

Toris felt depressed.

Well, no, he told himself. Why should he? This was his fantasy. Come the end of summer, Feliks would board the train once again and be off and away. There was no chance of Feliks spotting Toris in his favourite, slightly dusty, corner of the cafeteria. Absolutely zero possibility! Therefore, Toris could imagine whatever he wanted. So he did. He imagined him and Feliks sitting in class next to each other. Feliks may not understand something, like say why the author of War and Peace went on a tirade in the last bit about Napoleon, and Toris would lean over the heavy desks and explain it, very quietly. No one would hear. And if they did, the students would realize this rather plain-faced, mousy haired young boy knew a thing or two. Feliks would thank him, respecting inching up in his meter for Toris. Then, they'd go for lunch. They would go outside and eat something delicious while watching the ducks paddle through the lack or flop through puddles if it had been rainy out. People would be jealous! Why did old boring Toris get such a chic, city-slicker friend who was just so cool? They'd writhe!

Toris was grinning to himself when he clambered up the steps to his apartment. The building had a sharp, malodorous tang of unseen mold spread through the air. For all his years living here, Toris still scrunched his nose up and breathed hoarsely through his mouth. The asthmatic rasp ended shortly after entering his sweet-smelling apartment. He popped his shoes off and entered the one kitchen, one bathroom, one bedroom, one living room that doubled as anything else it needed to be, apartment. His mother was in the kitchen and turned to see him. She had meat sizzling in a pan and some on her palm.  
"Hello dear."

"Hello mum." Toris said.

"You seem very happy."

"I made a friend."

"You did?"

"Yeah. The train dropped off lots of people today and ImetthisreallycoolguynamedFeliksandhehadalotofmoneyandwewenteverywhere-"

His mother laughed, cutting him off. "Slow down. Wash up and eat. Then tell me about it."

"Where are Eduard and Raivis?"

"Eduard is in the room and Raivis is with friends."

Toris went to the room the three brothers shared. Their mother slept in the living room, often with the radio on and set an an almost inaudible volume. Eduard was sitting on his bed with several books laid out in front of him.

"Hi Ed."

"Hi Toris."

"How are you?"

"Mph."

Toris took this to mean the Eduard would be a stone wall yet again this evening. He did not come out for dinner.

During which, while Toris was telling his mother about his day, Raivis arrived home wet from the lake and triumphant.

"Whatever it is, drop it." Their mother said, turning to the smallest brother.

Raivis pouted and held out his hand. A rotund, to the point it was nearly a full circle, frog leapt from his pocket, creating mayhem for the rest of the evening and rather ruining dinner, in Toris' opinion. He hadn't even mentioned Feliks' lecture on male ballet.

Well, he'll mention it tomorrow. Patient as ever, Toris helped his mother clean up the kitchen while she scolded Raivis, who now cuddled the obese frog, until Raivis pouted his way back out of the building to release to tormented amphibian.

That night, Toris' mother did not leave the radio on while she slept.

. . .

This was all the past.

Toris, over a decade in the future and far more exhausted, placed his hands in his lap. The typewriter left the pads of his fingers raw and erythematous. It was nearly three in the morning. The Manilla envelope, unsent, still lay slanted at his side. He would have to send that in within a couple hours so his editor could publish it. But, Toris restless and insomnia-ridden, decided he would stay up and work on his own passion project.

If he did publish this, he would of course change the names. Not that it would matter. If Feliks, busy as he was, ever did pick up a novel by a familiar name, should Toris make the grave mistake of forgetting his nom-de-plume, he would recognize the story immediately. He may bring a lawsuit down upon Toris immediately, friend or not. The only possible safeguard Toris had was that Feliks didn't like to read, as it made him rather sleepy, and was unlikely to enter a bookstore when better things were afoot in the rest of the city.

Not that Toris would ever publish anything, really.

Still, it was nice to try.


End file.
